In her revolt against a world
that had wantonly inflicted on her the worst torments, Mary
Turner had thought that she might safely disregard those
principles in which she had been so carefully reared. She had
believed that by the deliberate adoption of a life of guile
within limits allowed by the law, she would find solace for her
wants, while feeling that thus she avenged herself in some slight
measure for the indignities she had undergone unjustly. Yet, as
the days passed, days of success as far as her scheming was
concerned, this brilliant woman, who had tried to deem herself
unscrupulous, found that lawlessness within the law failed to
satisfy something deep within her soul. The righteousness that
was her instinct was offended by the triumphs achieved through so
devious devices, though she resolutely set her will to suppress
any spiritual rebellion.
There was, as well, another grievance of her nature, yet more
subtle, infinitely more painful. This lay in her craving for
tenderness. She was wholly woman, notwithstanding the virility
of her intelligence, its audacity, its aggressiveness.
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